


Weapon for Your Victory

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Feels, Blind Character, Blindness, Brotherly Love, Danger Phrases, Death Threats, Discovery, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilt, Gun Violence, Hostage Situations, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Infiltration, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Medical Trauma, Mild Gore, Mission Reports, Missions Gone Wrong, Protectiveness, Psychological Trauma, Revenge, Seizures, Snipers, Spark Bond, Telepathic Bond, Twins, Vengeful Prowl, Worry, under duress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3749929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "A character's lost one of the five senses (smell, touch, taste, hearing, sight) temporarily. What happens?"</p><p> </p><p>  <em>“Prowl. It wasn’t your fault. It’s not. There was absolutely nothing you could have done.”</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>“If I had let him take the shot the first time he had it, he would have fallen back sooner,” Prowl responded after ten long kliks.  “He wouldn’t have been discovered.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Weapon for Your Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Cybertronian Time Measurements  
> Klik - 1 Second  
> Breem - 30 Minutes/1 Half-Hour  
> Orn - 1 Day
> 
> Symbols  
> Comm. Link - :Insert Words Here:  
> Spark Bond - ~:Insert Words Here:~

:I have the shot.:

:Bluestreak, hold your position and await my command.:

:I won’t be able to keep it for long, Prowl! You were the one who told me I had to take the shot before Raj uncloaked—:

:He won’t uncloak without my order, Bluestreak. Wait for me.:

:But Prowl—Primus tricurse that son-of-a-slagheap, I lost him! No joy!:

:Bluestreak, keep your voice down!:

:Keep my voice down?! Prowl, if I had gotten that shot we could’ve ended this mission a whole lot sooner—wait, wait. Oooh, he’s coming back. Prowl, can I take him? Let me take him! I’ve got this; you know me, bro, it’ll take less than a klik.:

:…Very well, Bluestreak. Mirage, stand ready.:

:Ready and waiting, Prowl.:

:Bluestreak. Helix.:

:Wh-What?:

:Bluestreak, _Helix_. Take the shot.:

:…:

:Prowl, I think the guard knows something’s up—ah! Prowl…he’s listening to the comm. link…He’s heading for the vantage point!:

:Bluestreak, Mirage suspects you’ve been made. Fall back and wait for instructions.:

:Yeah, okay, Prowl, I’m going. And, uh, just to let you know—well, I don’t want to mess with the scheme of things here, but I’m gonna take a chance and talk as your sniper when I say this: your battle computer’s malfunctioning. Get a move on, Prowler.:

:…Mirage, abort.:

:I beg your pardon?:

:Abort, _now!_ Get to Bluestreak’s vantage point ASAP; I’m on my way there now! Bluestreak?:

:Yeah, I know you carefully planned this, but you seem to forget there’s only _one_ of me and—unh! _Agghh!_ :

:Bluestreak, what’s your status? Bluestreak!:

—

Prowl found himself instantly alert from recharge, moving out of his chamber and down the hall almost against his will. All that mattered was reaching the medical bay.

Ratchet looked up from the schematics spread in front of him and his tense expression softened.

“How is he?” Prowl asked quietly.

“The same. I put him in medical stasis so his self-repair systems can work on the trauma, but I’ll need to see what spare parts I can find to… _restructure_ his face.” Ratchet rose and came around his desk, leaning on it as he questioned, “What happened out there, Prowl? Not the two-klik version you gave me when you dragged him in here—the real thing.”

Prowl cycled his ventilations very evenly and narrated in a flat voice, “I gave Bluestreak the order for ‘Helix’, which is the signal he and I designed for taking the kill shot. He hesitated for reasons I didn’t understand at the time. Mirage informed me that the guard was receiving information through his comm. link and was heading for the vantage point, again for reasons I didn’t understand. I ordered Bluestreak to withdraw and he replied that my battle computer was malfunctioning.”

“And what exactly—?”

“Between us, it means that something was not going according to plan,” Prowl sped on. “Immediately afterward he urged me to ‘get a move on, Prowler’. As you know, it’s a nickname Jazz created which I happen to despise, but when Bluestreak used that particular phrase he was asking that I get a move on _his_ prowler—He had been ambushed and was at that very moment compromised. I told Mirage to abort the mission and told Bluestreak I was on my way. He subtly informed me that there was only one captor—and then that captor _shot him in the face_.” Raising his eyebrows, Prowl asked, “May I see him?”

Ratchet tried not to look taken aback. “I won’t stop you, but I _will_ caution you. Some of the damage is…extensive.”

Prowl’s frown deepened. “I know. I was the first to reach him.”

Sighing, Ratchet gestured for him to enter the backroom of the med bay. When Prowl did so, he instantly identified his brother despite the thermal tarp draped over most of his body. Prowl halted next to the medical berth, leaning his hands against the edge, keeping them flat and still.

Prowl might think Bluestreak was recharging if there hadn’t been so much wrong with what was in front of him. In a better moment, Bluestreak would power down on his side, hugging his knees loosely to his chest, doorwings folded into a relaxed downward pose. Instead he was flat on his back, looking stiff and all too immobile. All the willpower in the world couldn’t have stopped Prowl from looking upward.

Bluestreak’s face was a ruin. The right half of his lower jaw and his right cheek vent were gone. His _left_ cheek vent had been torn in half as the blast ripped upwards through his chin, barely missing his left audial as it exited. Prowl had seen wounds like this before but, cliché as he may believe it, the state of the optics was what made him cringe. The lenses were dim, the rims cracked and stained navy-black with a sooty layer of oil and energon.

Prowl stared into them for an indeterminate amount of time, longing for them to come online, and then Ratchet spoke from the door.

“Prowl. It wasn’t your fault.”

Prowl didn’t answer vocally, but his hands tightened on the berth’s surface and his vents stuttered.

“It’s not. There was absolutely nothing you could have done.”

“If I had let him take the shot the first time he had it instead of telling him to wait, he would have fallen back sooner,” Prowl responded after ten long kliks. “He wouldn’t have been discovered.”

“Hey. Listen to me,” Ratchet ordered, coming closer. “You are the least emotional person I know. Blaming yourself now won’t help him.”

“Then what will?”

Ratchet paused. “Let him know you’re here.”

“He’s in stasis, Ratchet,” Prowl breathed.

Rolling his optics, Ratchet demanded, “When has that _ever_ stood in the way of a split-spark bond?” Prowl glanced at him somberly and Ratchet shrugged. “You’re already emotional. It’ll balance out between you.”

When the medic had gone, Prowl sank down on the edge of the berth and rested a hand on Bluestreak’s arm. It felt like a fight, but the cloying fear and unexpected anger that simmered beneath the surface made Prowl’s spark constrict in a way he’d never felt before. The bond came alive as Bluestreak unconsciously detected his twin, dropping his shields and sweeping through to touch him. Prowl ex-vented as soon as he felt Bluestreak do so, his presence sharply-cut silver, unmistakable. Thoughts and impulses streamed between them in a split-second flash, Bluestreak’s manifestation clogging Prowl’s senses like a deep dream.

He waited, a breath too long, Bluestreak’s half-spark thrumming against his own. They seemed whole at the moment, but something was still wrong. Helplessness was not an emotion he felt often, if ever, but with the sudden terror building up between them, he knew with clarity that there was nothing he could do to defend his twin. Bluestreak was beginning to remember what had happened.

They waited. He felt Bluestreak’s temper flare, protocols and waiting for orders the only thing keeping it in check. There was a twitch, or at least a consideration of a twitch, and then acceptance. Forced patience then, belying frustration. A blast of hope and excitement and then more patience calming it. The twitch returned, ready for fulfillment, for success, and then a lockup.

 _One hand gripping his left doorwing, almost_ crushing _into its sensory net, and in the other hand a blaster shoved underneath his right arm, pushing into where the outer armor connected. His trigger hand slipped away from his weapon. He squirmed, his doorwings twitching in vain to be freed, but his captor presses against his back, trapping them further. The buzz of harsh words against his audial_.

Prowl struggled to stay in the link even as Bluestreak kicked at him, trying to suppress whatever came next. Barriers flashed between them, warped and shivering. Bluestreak was trying to protect him, he realized, to spare him from what happened.

_~:Finish the report, Bluestreak.:~_

_~:No.:~_

The shortness of the reply worried Prowl immensely, but it didn’t look right. His auto-predict system kept trying to attach the word “please” to his brother’s message.

_~:Finish. I need to know.:~_

Flat silence was what he received then, so he was startled when the flashback continued. Prowl could hear the words now, though he couldn’t identify the voice.

_“I wonder what you were going to do with the guard’s body. Wanna tell me? No? Not very chatty? Have you been given the order to fire?”_

_“Wh-What?”_ (Prowl recognized that part; he’d heard it himself, confused at Bluestreak’s hesitation when he’d been so eager to fire before.)

_“Well, you’re not going to fire or call for help.” The hijacker’s hand left his wing and gripped the trigger of his sniper rifle. “I’ve got your commander dead to rights.”_

_Aside from the buzz of Prowl and Raj’s conversation in his comm., silence. Maintain careful silence. As the Con talked to the other at the base entrance, Prowl addressed him and he shivered, much to the glee of his captor._

_“Yeah, okay, Prowl, I’m going. And, uh, just to let you know—well, I don’t want to mess with the scheme of things here, but I’m gonna take a chance and talk as your sniper when I say this: your battle computer’s malfunctioning. Get a move on, Prowler.”_

_A desperate prayer that Prowl would understand, relief when he did, followed by dismay as he was dragged away from his rifle._

_“Well, quick-scoper, can’t have you sending any duress calls to your SIC. Consider yourself freed.”_

_As he was turned around, a flash of red optics and the brighter glow of a weapon._ _His neural net ignited, spreading a wildfire of agony that overrode all else. He heard the echoes of his scream ringing through the trees and felt dry earth catch his fall. His spark seized as energon and oil pooled in his throat and vents, but the waves of panic ended up dragging through trails of blackness even before he was no longer aware._

Prowl crashed back into his own body as he heard an intense wail of monitors. Ratchet appeared seemingly out of nowhere, as did an auto-injector. Disoriented, Prowl leapt out of the way, half expecting Ratchet to inject _him_ , but Ratchet didn’t even glance at him, catching Bluestreak’s IV. Bluestreak’s violent shuddering calmed gradually, as did the monitors.

“What did you do?” Ratchet barked.

“What did I do?” Prowl echoed back, dazed. “What went wrong?”

“He was having a seizure, in case you didn’t notice!”

Prowl felt another wave of horror nearly send him down. He couldn’t help but stumble a little, easing himself against the nearby wall.

“Ratchet…did you _know_ he was blinded by the shot?”

The medic said nothing, but the way he immediately sought after an ophthalmoscope answered Prowl’s question just fine. He was somewhat thankful that the medic hadn’t realized it—for his sake.

—

“An’ the poor kid couldn’t tell whose voice it was?” Ironhide asked unhappily.

“Not as far as I know,” Prowl replied flatly, staring at a point beyond Ironhide’s shoulder. “While he shared the memory with me, it is _his_ memory. The greater details may still return to him.”

Optimus, seated at the head of the meeting table, knit his fingers together in contemplation. “Ratchet…how reparable is the damage to Bluestreak’s sight?”

Ratchet sighed reluctantly, glancing toward Prowl, whose optics were the only part of him that shifted to look. “It’s…not, Optimus, not that I can tell. If I can’t find the parts to build _new_ optics for him, I’m almost 100% certain he won’t see again.”

Murmurs were passed through the group and then Mirage thumped the table. “I’m certainly not known for my penchant for violence,” he declared, his usually smooth voice brittle with anger, “but this ought to be the last provocation! I suggest we drive a hard assault at that base!”

“Couldn’a said it better myself,” Ironhide agreed forcefully, but his next words were interrupted.

“No.”

Even Optimus seemed astonished at Prowl’s word.

“No?” Ironhide echoed dumbly. “Prowl, if—if _anyone_ should—”

“If anyone should want to reciprocate, it would be me,” Prowl agreed coolly, tightening and loosening his fists with each ventilation. “And I’m not denying that. Optimus, I have sworn to live without my feelings clouding my judgment.”

Optimus nodded minutely, his battle mask failing to hide his concern.

“But the feelings in my spark are not my own,” Prowl finished through clenched teeth. “I feel Bluestreak’s anger, but more than that I feel his pain. And when I find out who’s behind this… _I_ will return his pain to them. Do not make me disobey an order against this.”

“Prowl…” Optimus said softly, but he couldn’t find anything to retort. Of all the other mechs, only one could.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Jazz murmured. “We could help—”

“I’m not in the mood to hear this!” Prowl hollered. Jazz fidgeted, even the ever-constant static in his speakers quieting. Prowl could have relished in it if he had cared.

—

**FIVE ORNS LATER**

Now that a new jaw and tongue had been attached and he could take advantage of his vocals, Bluestreak didn’t seem as bothered by his blindness as anyone would expect—but then, most didn’t know the truth. Only a few had discerned that Bluestreak’s constant chatter was his way to cope with intensity, stress, trauma, or a combined trio. He was talking faster than was even normal, barely stopping to vent between sentences and causing himself more damage than he expected.

Today found him between both Ratchet and Prowl, together making it their sole purpose to severely admonish him. He had been up and attempting to walk within the first few kliks of stirring from recharge, trying to navigate the med bay simply with touch and memory. Needless to say it hadn’t ended well, as he’d tripped over the recently unloaded stack of energon cubes, tried to catch himself on a stand with a full tool tray and had fallen flat on his face, dislocating the new jaw he was so fond of.

“That ought to teach you not to disobey the doctor’s orders!” Ratchet spat as he restrung the last few circuits from which the jaw had been dangling when they’d found him. “And now that you can speak, what do you have to say for yourself?!”

Bluestreak in-vented hurriedly and burst out, “I’m really sorry, Ratchet, but I thought since you repaired my face I ought to be able to get up and about since no other parts of my body were damaged and I really did believe I had your med bay memorized, so who was the one who dropped off the energon supply, cos doesn’t everyone else know I’m blind by now? How inconsiderate was that, sticking the energon right in the fraggin’ walkway where anyone, not just one stunted sniper, could trip over it and hurt themselves further than what was done to them by a single fraggin’ Con I couldn’t even _recognize_?!” His following ex-vent was a strangled series of sobs and his doorwings trembled, clanging gently against his back. It was the only noise for a long while and then Prowl stepped into his EM field, letting him know he’d drawn closer.

“I’m going to touch your face, Bluestreak.” He did so, wishing that the dead circuits beneath the facial plating could feel it as he wiped away the coolant streaming unnoticed from the unlit optics. Ratchet had said the senses might return, but how long could it take?

“I-I-I just wanna be like I was before,” Bluestreak stuttered. “Instead of—”

“A ‘stunted sniper’?” Prowl cut in, his tone icier than he had wanted. Bluestreak’s doorwings clanged once more and Prowl forced his voice to smooth. “You’re not stunted, Bluestreak. You’re wounded. When he finds the proper resources, Ratchet is going to repair you.”

“That’s true,” Ratchet agreed comfortingly. “I have Wheeljack, Perceptor, and Grapple working around the clock to find the parts.” Sighing in exasperation, he added, “And I would join them if you didn’t keep getting up and injuring yourself!”

“But I can’t stay in here forever, Ratchet!” Bluestreak wailed. “I wanna move around—I _need_ to move around, otherwise I’ll feel like I’m even more trapped than I am and I don’t wanna be that way! I don’t wanna be a victim who just sits in here all day; I wanna see my friends and let them know I’m not a gray slab in here! Have you even given them an update on my progress? Granted it isn’t much, but at least I was on my feet and walking before whatever microchip-moron put the energon in my way!”

“‘Microchip-moron’? I didn’t know you had such creative nicknames for me,” Prowl remarked dryly. Bluestreak flinched.

“Oh. Sorry, Prowl, I didn’t know it was—”

“You’re forgiven. But as I have told you so many times during our lifetime, _think_ before you speak. Also, it took at least a breem for me to locate each of the tools you spilled; let someone offer to help you before you stand.”

Bluestreak was quiet for a total of two kliks before he gasped. “Are you offering, Prowl?”

Prowl nodded and then mentally smacked himself. “Yes. Take my hand.” When he held it out (again cursing himself inwardly), Bluestreak lifted his own, sort of patting the air until their fingers bumped and locked.

“Just be careful,” Ratchet cautioned. Bluestreak smiled a little.

“I’ll be just fine, Ratchet, nothing bad is going to happen to me as long as I don’t walk into any walls and break my nose, right? I won’t trip over anything cos there are tons of arms hanging around to catch me and I’ve got my brother to watch out for me so I don’t fall in the first place.”

Prowl tried to suppress his grief at the last part, but by the way Bluestreak’s face snapped back into a frown he could tell a trickle had gotten through. Thankfully Bluestreak refrained from mentioning it…

…at least until they were out in the hallway. “Prowl? What was that about?” Bluestreak didn’t say anything more, not even to clarify, and that surprised Prowl. Bluestreak felt that too and stated seriously, “If I want a question answered by you, I need to listen, right? What was that sadness for?”

Prowl hesitated, murmuring, “Shift to your left,” as they dodged a corner. Now that Bluestreak was listening, a miracle in itself, how was he to answer that question?

Jazz saved him. “Well, if it isn’t the Blues! Good to see you up and about, my mech!”

Bluestreak tugged on Prowl’s hand so they would halt. “Good to see…” He swallowed, his new jaw tightening momentarily, and then revised, “Good to know you’re there, Jazz.”

Jazz’s voice was softer but no less kind as he informed him, “You’ve been all the buzz lately, Bluestreak. Everyone’s been sending you emails, but we suspect Ratchet set up some kinda blockin’ field around the med bay since we know you’re usually vocal ’bout your ‘thank-you’ notes.”

“Well, if you and Prowl wouldn’t mind leading me to the rec room, I can thank everyone in person. That would probably be better than a simple note, right? They might think it’s Ratchet trying to stop you sending the emails altogether,” Bluestreak replied with a short laugh. Jazz laughed too and gripped the hand Bluestreak stretched out.

There was a chorus of enthusiastic greetings as soon as the doors to the rec room opened. For how much he talked, Bluestreak proved that he had listened also, recognizing each voice without its owner having to introduce themselves. Eventually, however, Prowl could tell he wanted to get further than the doors, so he asked that everyone give him his space long enough for him to have an energon cube. When they were seated at one of the corner tables, Bluestreak released a long sigh.

“So, Prowl? Will you tell me why you’re so sad now?”

“Would you expect me to be anything other than sad when I must see you this way?” Prowl questioned in a low voice.

Bluestreak leaned forward, searching the surface of the table for his hand once more. He was becoming more tactile, Prowl noted, but he didn’t want to put his hand within his twin’s reach while he was feeling so uncomfortable. Giving up, Bluestreak withdrew his hand and folded it with his other one.

“No, of course I wouldn’t; even you’re not that taciturn. But I would expect you to be sad about _me_ and not yourself.”

Momentarily Prowl was glad Bluestreak couldn’t see him startle at the words.

“You’re blaming yourself for this, aren’t you?” Bluestreak demanded rhetorically, his voice astonishingly even. (Prowl knew now how his own calm tones usually unnerved other mechs.) “For the love of Primus, Prowl, it’s not like you messaged that Con to give him my location and said, “Oh, by the way, don’t you think it’d be a great idea to shoot him in the face and blind him for who knows how long?”! You would never betray me like that!”

“But I _did_ betray you!” Prowl hissed. “Though inadvertently, I did. Do you remember telling me what happened to you through our bond?”

“Vaguely,” Bluestreak confirmed cautiously.

“You told me the Decepticon threatened to kill me and that was what made you send the duress call. That was what made him shoot you! Your concern for me caused you to betray yourself; therefore I betrayed you.”

“Don’t draw assumptions, Prowl, be logical!” Bluestreak snapped. “You would never do that, even if it was to protect yourself. You would die for me, because you’re my _brother_ , and I would die for you for the same.” Leaning forward, Bluestreak found his hand then, squeezing it somewhat painfully beneath his own. “What I did, I _chose_ to do because _I_ wanted to protect you, but the real you: the one who would have done the exact same thing I did and would be telling me the exact same thing if he were in my place. So who are you and what have you done with my brother, because if you’re blaming Prowl, you don’t deserve my protection.”

While he had always been a mech of few words, Prowl frankly found himself unable to speak. _Who are_ you _and what have you done with Bluestreak?_ he wondered. _When did you become so wise?_ Finally he turned his hand over so their palms lay against each other, a sign of acceptance. Bluestreak smiled again and if Prowl had been watching more closely, he would have seen a flicker of faint blue light in his brother’s optics.

—

**EPILOGUE**

“Are you regretting your decision yet, Ripcrux?” the smooth voice spoke again, causing the Seeker to nod vigorously even as he struggled feebly against his bonds and groaned as only his wounds were strained.

“Good. Have you come to fear me?”

Another vigorous nod, followed immediately by a shiver as he heard the clang of footsteps approaching.

“Good,” the voice repeated, even quieter than before. “There is nothing you should fear more than me at this point, not even your precious Lord Megatron’s wrath. In fact, I wonder if by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be questioning your loyalty to him. If this is what it gets you, why bother being loyal to him?”

Ripcrux vented heavily as he heard hydraulics shift. The speaker was leaning down next to his audial when he spoke again.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“I…don’t know why I’m loyal to him,” Ripcrux stammered. “I—I just am! I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry for being loyal to Megatron?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Oh.” There was a pause and then a short sigh. “I’m afraid in this instance that means nothing. You’re not supposed to be sorry for that. Do you want to know what you should—and _will_ —be sorry for?”

Ripcrux’s voice was a croak. “…What?”

“You will be sorry,” the voice answered in the softest of tones, “for touching my brother.”

Ripcrux stiffened, flashes of an Autobot sniper appearing in his mind.

“Ah, you know who I’m speaking of. Good. Do you think you are ready?”

“Ready for what?” Ripcrux asked fearfully.

“To be released from this darkness. Do you think yourself ready to see me now?”

Unable to think of any other possible action, Ripcrux nodded another time. The blindfold he’d worn for far too long was torn away from him and he trembled. Prowl smiled thinly in response to his shock.

“Yes. I am the Autobot SIC. He is _my_ brother. And you…you _touched_ him. I will make certain you never touch anyone again.” With that Prowl brandished the knife he’d stolen from the collection Bluestreak had spilled, set it against the base of Ripcrux’s index finger and began his work.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> NEVER mess with Prowl. And never, ever, EVER mess with his brother. O_O


End file.
